


we used to roar like an open fire (but that’s history)

by anupturnedboat



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 1990s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, American Civil War, Angst, F/M, French Revolution, Game of Thrones References, Mysticism, Reincarnation, Tragic Romance, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-22 05:52:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19661146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anupturnedboat/pseuds/anupturnedboat
Summary: It is the call of wild wolves, the lash of the ocean, the roar of an open fire, time upside down in the eye of a raven. It’s forever, but she doesn’t know that yet.





	we used to roar like an open fire (but that’s history)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a reincarnation fic, the characters are always Arya and Gendry although they may have different names, situations, backgrounds etc.

1.

The first time they meet, she is a lone wolf.Her heart is breaking in all kinds of ways.His strong arms keep her from falling completely apart.

“We’re going home,” she promises, one night, under the stars, the fire crackling, Hot Pie snoring nearby, “as soon as we can sneak away.”She means it too.

“Where’s home?” he asks pinching her arm, even though she knows he knows.

Home is new snow, kestrels taking flight.Home is family and their laughter echoing in the halls. It is Old Nan, and even Septa and her stupid embroidery.It can be Gendry now too.

“Winterfell, stupid,” she yawns.

 _Its love,_ people whisper.She pretends not to hear. Tom Sevenstreams calls her a forest lass and winks, but she’s too young, and she’s not that kind of girl.

But they are bound nevertheless; it’s the call of wild wolves, the lash of the ocean, the roar of an open fire, time upside down in the eye of a raven.

It’s forever, but she doesn’t know that yet.

He keeps her secrets, and stands next to her when the survival of the world is on the precipice.He sets her skin ablaze with his calloused hands, but she reminds him there isn’t time for that.

 _There is_ , but she’s been the last of her kind, and then no one, and then blood and ash.She’s broken in all kinds of ways, but she’s making her way back to herself, one mark on a map at a time.

Sometimes she imagines making her way back to him, her Stormlands Lord, but she never does.

2.

The second time they meet, there is a blood red sash tied at her waist.She’s wielding a sabre, _Needle_ , his memory supplies, and he is filled with a sudden inexplicable longing. Then the thought drifts away, before he can ponder where it came from.

He watches the funeral procession turned protest from the doorway of the shop.Women, fierce, militant, lift a bathtub on their shoulders and carry it through the streets. “Perish all despots,” they chant and wave a blood stained shirt. “Marat!” But his eyes remain on her.

France is powder keg about to explode he can feel it in the air, but his uncle is dying, and he’s about to be alone in the world once again, so he watches with weary eyes.

She’s in front of him now, her dark hair messy about her shoulders, her gray eyes meet his and for half a second, _everything is on fire, and thereis a rush of wings overhead, and she is stepping over dead men to get to him._

Then there is musket fire, and the crowd rushes.It’s impulsive, but he grabs her arm and pulls her into his shop, out of the fray of rushing bodies.

He closes the door quickly. She struggles against him until he raises his hands, showing her he means no harm. “It’s dangerous out there, I just-”

“I can take care of myself,” she exclaims pushing him away hard.

“I believe you,” he concedes regaining his balance. “But you are no use to the revolution trampled to death or imprisoned.”

“Who are you?” she questions suspiciously, lifting the sabre between them.

“Where’d you get that,” he asks eyeing the blade between them “women aren’t allowed weapons.”

“That’s stupid,” she shoots back venomously. “Women should have a right to bear arms, get an education, participate in assemblies-”

“Agreed.”

That earns him a half smile he finds himself returning. 

“It was a gift.From my brother,” she replies moving towards the window. 

The crowd has mostly dispersed.He searches for something to say, anything that will keep her here a little longer.It feels imperative, like this will be the last time he’ll ever see her if he lets her go. “I’m Henri, and you?”

“Have we met before?” she asks over her shoulder, ignoring the question.

“I think I’d remember if we did,” he breathes, immediately feeling foolish.

“You are so familiar,” she muses yanking the door open.She pauses for just a moment, and it feels like everything is about to change.But then it’s gone with a shake of her head. “Maybe our paths will cross again, Henri,” she says, then curtsies before slipping away.

3.

The next time, she is wearing a scratchy ill-fitting uniform that is boxy enough to hide the fact that she is a girl.

They end up in the same company in Hartford, and it doesn’t take her long to decide to stick close to Private Waters, he doesn’t say much, and he’s a good fighter.The other men stay away from them both.Good.

Tomorrow they march on Richmond.She knows how to use a rifle, thanks to her brother William, and her aim is pretty good, but this is a war, and she knows the odds. 

She tells him about Mother and Father, William, even Susannah, while he cleans his rifle, then hers, with deft hands.

He’s also a good listener and nice to look at besides.

“How far away do you think we are from Camp Sumter?” she whispers after they set out their bedrolls, she knows she needs her rest, but all she can think about is her brother, and how she is going to free him.

“Stop talking about Camp Sumter, or you’ll find yourself there before you know it,” Private Waters, grumbles before rolling over.

The next day is gray and muddy.Her fingers are uncharacteristically clumsy on the trigger, and before long her lungs burn with smoke, she tries to stick close to Waters, but they quickly get separated. 

The air is knocked out of her and the feeling is worse than the blood soaking through her uniform. _She wishes she had a blade, she’s always been better with a blade in her hand._

Then Waters’ face is above hers and he’s saying something fast, she can’t make out the words, and it would be so much easier if she closed her eyes.She feels his hands under her arms, and her feet drag in the bloody muddy ground.

When she opens her eyes he’s saying something about getting her to a medic, and that wakes her up. “No!” she pleads as loudly as her lungs will allow, pushing his hands away.

The pain is immense and she gasps.He pauses, before reaching for her again.“I’ve got to see how bad it is.” He tears away her shirt, and her hands instinctively go to her chest, covering her bound breasts, he stops, hovering over her.

“I knew it,” he huffs. “You damn fool.”

When she wakes, there is a small fire burning, and he is watching it pensively.She feels like hell. 

“Where are we?”

“Dead,” he responds moodily.“Which is better than what we will be if they find us.”

She’s made him a deserter.It’s terrible and wrong, but also, it feels like something forgotten has clicked into place, like this is exactly where she is supposed to be.

She sleeps for days.

When she recovers enough to sit up, they argue about going to Camp Sumter, but in the end he agrees to help her.

He fusses over her wound, hesitates when she kisses his jaw, down his throat.

There isn’t time, but he is tender, and when he runs his palm up her bare thigh, kestrels take flight over snow.

They don’t make it to Camp Sumter, not even close. 

4.

He’s dreaming of a forest of winter trees, fire, the clang of steel, the hiss of steam.This is who he was, once, but he can’t remember when.

Maybe he’s dead.He feels like death, or maybe it’s just the morphine.

He wakes to a whirlwind in a striped jumpsuit. _Arry,_ his fuzzy mind remembers.

“A letter from John!” the whirlwind whoops waving a piece of paper in a gloved hand, a welders mask in the other.

“Shhh,” the redheaded nurse reprimands her. 

“He can’t hear me, the whirlwind sighs impatiently,“he’s practically dead.”

“Anna!”

He laughs despite himself, which absolutely kills, he’s forgotten about the stitches.The pretty whirlwind cocks an amused eyebrow at him though, so it is worth it. The redheaded nurse shoos her out.

The whirlwind brings lunch the next day, and asks him how he ended up in VA hospital in New Jersey around a mouthful of food.

He tells her about Munich, and the French surgeon who saved his arm, what he remembers at least. His chest wound has almost healed, but the surgery to repair the nerve damage in his left shoulder, had laid him out. He may never regain total use of it again, but he doesn’t tell her that part.

He learns that the redheaded nurse is her sister.John is their brother and they hadn’t heard from him in months, feared him dead.But the letter that’s just arrived, says he’s been on the front lines in central Italy.She wishes she was there with him now.

He’s glad she’s not. 

They have lunch nearly every day, his head propped up on pillows, and her pail between them.She pulls the curtain closed, after her sister scolds them for being too loud, disturbing the other men trying to sleep or die in peace.

She’s just started working at the Ways, welding plates and braces at the shipyard. “Someday, I’d like to just sail away,” she confides wistfully.“No war, no worrying about another letter saying someone you love is dead. No way to do a goddamn thing about it.”

He has a sudden vision; he’s on a dock, ash still in the air, watching her set sail. There is awolf’s head emblazoned on the mast, and his heart breaking in the worst way, knowing he will never see her again.

He kisses her before she can slip away this time _(this time?),_ winces when she climbs onto his lap, pushing him back. “Sorry,” she whispers against his lips, “I forgot about the shoulder.”

 _What shoulder_ , he thinks dazedly, tangled up in the heat of her, the press of her lips - it feels like they have been here before, like they are on the edge of the world like always.His heart stutters in his chest, and he wonders if it has always been like this.

He supposes he should have seen it coming, but it hurts just the same.

“Where?” he grits out roughly. 

Anna’s sister, looks pained, apologetic. “Iowa,” she says softly.

“What in the seven hells is in Iowa?”

“She’s enlisted in the Women’s Auxiliary Corps.”

He gets discharged in June.He thinks about finding her every day. 

5.

This time he is just a voice on the other end of the line.He’s the other volunteer registering voters downtown before the November election.He’s a registered Independent, and forgives her for being a Democrat.Clinton and Dole are both twats as far as he’s concerned.

They can never coordinate their schedules, so they never run into each other, but they’ve been talking like this for three months now, and it is surprising how easy he is to talk to.She’s always been more of a lone wolf, and certainly not one to talk ( _or flirt, is she really flirting?)_ until 3.a.m. with a boy she’s never met.

It’s August, the long cord of the telephone is pulled across the room, he’s listening to Green Day on repeat, and she’s writing a new song on her guitar. 

“It’s like we’re going back in time,” she complains over the phone, “for women, and minorities, it’s like a pushing a boulder up a mountain.And then having it roll back down.Repeat, repeat, repeat.And it feels like no one cares.”

“Well, I care,” he says earnest, serious, “and you care, so that’s something.”

It is.And he is.Something.She’s trying to ignore it, but the timbre of his voice calms the restless fury in her veins.Makes her feel seen for the first time in – ever, and she’s grown needy for these late night phone calls.

“Maybe we’ll even change the world.”

She smiles into the phone.

When they are like this, she can be anyone but herself.When they are like this, she doesn’t have to tell him that her father died and her brother Sean joined the Marines, and she can’t even talk to him. 

That there isn’t money for school and that she will have to drop out next semester if she doesn’t figure things out. She doesn’t tell him about the darkness, that she feels so alone, and restless and angry.Like she is literally no one. And that he is the best thing that has happened to her since.

So, she is perfectly content with never meeting him person.Because if she does, meet him, he’ll know, what kind of mess she really is.

But Bikini Kill is playing the Palladium, and their schedules magically line up.

She knows she’s going to ruin it, this blossoming wallet chain romance, before they even meet for the first time in front of the marquee.

He’s wearing a Waterboys t-shirt, and a scowl that turns into a lopsided grin when he sees her.“M’lady, he says holding the door open for her.”

 _Don’t call me m’lady,_ she thinks in an unsettling wave of déjà vu. _They once rode their horses over a river and through a forest of soggy ground, and she was so tired, he stopped her from falling off –_

She watches him under the fuchsia and green lights; the way he bounces on his toes and mouths the words to all the songs.

When Kathleen Hanna sings _How does that feel? It feels blind! How does that feel? Well, it feels fucking blind!_ , shivers go up her spine.

He bumps her arm with his, and slips his fingers between hers, like he _knows._

He walks her to his car, and she knows he wants to kiss her, but she scoots away before anything can happen.Why is she like this?

He leaves messages on her machine, and her roommate rolls her eyes.“Call him back, please, for the love of God.”

She will, once she gets her shit together, because she is not together, and he deserves someone who is.

The money runs out, and she does not get her shit together.She loses his number at some point.

6.

“Are we dreaming or are we dead?”

The moonlight on her bare skin is something he isn’t even aware he’s missed until this exact moment. He throws back the furs, and grasps her hips, pulling her into him. 

“I don’t know. Both? Neither?”

The strange northern sea rages outside the window, and he can’t shake the feeling like time is short. It always is. She winds her fingers in his, he trails lazy kisses down her neck.

“I’ve been having the wolf dreams again,” she admits, turning to him, reaching up and lacing her fingers around his neck.

He holds her there. “You’ll leave again.”

“I don’t want to,” she says capturing his lips.His hands fan out against her back pulling her into him, tighter.He walks her backwards to the bed, lifts her up and lays her down. “Then let’s make the most of whatever time we have left.”


End file.
